


a valediction: forbidding mourning

by heartsways



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, References to Depression, either way...deals with issues of grief, lady surgeons in love, may be a tad angsty, or just my usual overblown stuff, references to elinor's death, some physical stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsways/pseuds/heartsways
Summary: set some time after elinor's death, an introspective and kind of wholly disheartening view of where serena and bernie might be atlook, i make no apologies for this.  this is what happens when you have a couple of glasses of red on a sunday evening and get pretentious...





	

_But we by a love so much refined,_

_That ourselves know not what it is,_

_Inter-assurèd of the mind,_

_Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss._

 

 

 

Serena prefers to cry alone.  It's a bad habit she learned in a childhood where strength was drawn in the hard, unforgiving lines of steely resolve and impenetrable armour.  Weakness (the soft, hurtful spots that ached beneath her skin) was to be pitied.  Mocked.  Challenged.  It wasn't really so much a case of survival of the fittest, rather more survival of the most indomitable.  The one who could take the most hits without falling down.

 

She survived, more or less.  Later on, at Harvard, it was less and less until there was almost nothing left worth surviving for.  Her childhood made sense in a way it never had before.  Serena cried for the weaknesses she indulged in that had made her so different.  She cried for an illness she didn't even know she had, how it shifted her adult life into focus.  All the heightened, painful feelings she'd ever had - shoved them so far down under the detritus of her life that they were almost forgotten - made sense.  Her own, beautifully talented brain turning against her.

 

Instead of sobbing over the incomprehensible ways in which she'd failed, Serena wept into her pillow because now she had reason to.  Depression wasn't terminal, she'd been told.  But living with it, at times, was near enough a Herculean task.

 

Serena hadn't given up, though.  Not then.  Not even when it felt like it was her only option.  Back then, she'd had a future yawning ahead of her, a tiny shred of hope remaining in her chest to keep curiosity - life - burning.

 

This isn't just depression, though.  She chastises herself for being so dismissive but the truth is that Serena would rather go back to feeling grey and empty rather than how this feels: every memory, everything Elinor said and didn't say slicing through her with such accuracy that's it all she can do not to bleed out the best parts of her.  They feel like the only parts that really matter.

 

_Mattered._

 

She doesn't cry because she's sad.  Serena cries because she's all the other emotions there are, each one dissected and analysed for any trace of the blight that's tainted them all.  In her head, Serena goes over and over each conversation and argument and last, desperate plea.  Her tears are borne of frustration, anger, and grief.  Always grief, throbbing low and heavy in her gut.

 

Bernie comforts her when Serena allows it.  Sometimes it frightens her that she doesn't.  Serena's natural instinct makes her cringe from Bernie's hand on her shoulder, forces her into turning away so she can't show anything that might be used to hurt her, make her weak.  Those are the nights when Bernie follows, when she wraps her arms around Serena and buries her face into the nape of Serena's neck.  She tells Serena that everything is going to be okay.  Serena pretends to believe her.

 

It almost seems forgivable: the lies they tell for the other's benefit.  But Serena's lost everyone she's ever really cared about.  She doesn't want to lose Bernie, too.  Besides, it's such a small grace, isn't it?  To engender a satisfaction in Bernie's heart that she'll never really feel in her own.  Simply, it makes Bernie feel better and Serena can't begrudge her a single moment after all they've been through.

 

She's been allowing Bernie to comfort her more often these days.  Serena can't decide whether it's out of guilt or a genuine need.  Either one of those things irritates her, makes her snappish and sometimes even cruel.  It doesn't make the grief go away and it doesn't make her feel any better.  But it doesn't make Bernie go away, either.  Serena wonders why she stays and Bernie tells her over and over again, her mouth and hands chasing lines over Serena's skin.

 

Still, there are nights when she waits until Bernie's breathing drifts into a sleepy rhythm and her hand relaxes where it's splayed over Serena's hip.  Those are the darkest, longest nights when Serena cries silently, lonely even with Bernie's warm body pressed up against her own.  She's been weak in almost every way for Bernie.  This feels like her last bastion of solitary strength.

 

***

 

Tonight is a different sort of night.  Serena's been agitated all day, overly critical of everything and everyone.  By the time they get home, Bernie has been reduced to grim silence.  By the time they go to bed, an awkwardly civil dinner behind them, Serena knows this is all of her own making and that one day she'll push Bernie too far.  Then she'll go back to sleeping alone, being alone, crying alone.  Serena wonders - constantly, on a loop - if this is what she deserves and if it isn't some sort of divine punishment for not being better.  Part of her rails against it and she rallies, briefly, at work or at home.  She talks to Bernie and lets herself be embraced when she cries.  But the worst part of her, the one that refuses to accept Elinor is gone, seeks to make the hollow future she envisages happen.  It's how they've ended up here, tonight, with Bernie inert and awake under the covers and Serena hovering over her in resentful contrition.

 

Serena also wonders - a fleeting spike of self-harming cruelty - what it would take to force Bernie to leave.  How much more.

 

"I'm sorry," she says.  Bernie doesn't move, not even when Serena's fingertips press against her shoulder.

 

Bernie sucks in a breath then lets it out evenly.  "For what?" she asks.

 

Serena frowns.  Bernie's been accepting her apologies without question of late so she's never had to delve too deeply beneath her warped rationale for answers.  Her fingers slide from Bernie's shoulder and she moves back a little in the bed.  "Being in a mood."

 

Rolling over in the bed, Bernie looks steadily up at her.  Serena fervently wishes she could take away the sad look on Bernie's face at the same time she understands that she's the one who put it there.

 

"Is that what this is?  A mood?"  Bernie's eyes are so deep, shining with unshed tears Serena knows are her fault, too.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"  Serena doesn't mean it to come out so shrill, so shrewish.  Or perhaps she does because lashing out might be a false friend but it's really all she has the tolerance for these days.  

 

Bernie props herself up onto one elbow, peering into Serena's face.  There's an incredulity to her gaze that makes Serena feel sheepish and rather stupid.  "It means I'm not the enemy," Bernie tells her.  "Not even when you want me to be."

 

"I don't want that."  A muscle ticks high up on Serena's cheek.  Most of the time it's true.  But the more of a willing participant Bernie is - the ways in which she seeks to be understanding and compassionate - the more Serena wants to punish her for it.  Punish _both_ of them.  

 

"Good," Bernie nods.  She huffs a stray lock of blonde hair from her cheek, clearly working up to something.

 

"What can I do?" she finally asks.

 

" _Do_?"

 

"To help - you, I mean.  What do you want?"

 

Serena's always been so capable that offers of help were accepted through politeness rather than need.  She knows Bernie loves her; she can see it written across the planes of a face she's memorised by heart.  Anger roils through her gut because loving too much is what makes its absence - _Elinor's gone, she's gone_ \- all the more painful.

 

"I want," Serena jerks out the words, "to stop feeling like this."  

 

She can feel how it contorts her face: the sour, sick disappointment at the back of everything.  "Can you do that, Bernie?  Can you make it go away?"

 

Bernie blinks.  "No."  

 

Her voice doesn't hold failure but acceptance.  Serena wants to hate her for it.  But Bernie's hand lingers on the curve of her waist and it's been so long since she felt anything but grief that Serena almost gasps at its warmth and what it means.

 

"I'm just saying that I'm here.  And I know I don't - _can't_ feel what you feel but..."  Bernie presses her lips together and her fingers curl over Serena's hip.  "You don't have to be alone."

 

It's almost offensive, Serena thinks, to be offered such untempered devotion.  She bites down on a retort that burns like acid in her throat and feels the movement of Bernie's fingers over the cotton nightshirt she's wearing.  It whispers over her skin and it's been _so long, so long_ and too empty for her not to gravitate towards it.  Towards Bernie.

 

When Serena kisses her, Bernie lets out a little note of surprise but doesn't pull away.  She melts into Serena, her lips warm and wet, her tongue stroking over Serena's.  It's the only excuse Serena really needs; the only one she wants right now.

 

She shoves at Bernie, pushing her back onto the bed where she lands with a little squeak.  They've waited a long time and Serena is impatient, wondering at what she's missed, what she's forgotten in the weeks between then and now.  Her fingers claw at Bernie's vest, her nails scraping across a body that arches under her touch.  Serena bends, putting her cheek against Bernie's taut stomach and she breathes in, trying to stem the avaricious rush of hunger in her veins.  But there's only so much she can hide, a finite amount to the secrets she can keep from Bernie so when she rises up, Serena's eyes are almost black with the truth of it: of how much she wants and wants and can't stop.

 

Her fingers dip below the waistband of Bernie's pajamas and plunge between her legs.  One of Serena's feet hooks around Bernie's ankle, pulling her legs apart.  She smiles as she looks down at Bernie, feels her writhe on the bed, hips canting upwards beneath Serena's hand.  Then Bernie says her name and it reminds Serena how vulnerable she is to this; taking pleasure from it seems incongruous, almost disrespectful.   _Wrong_.

 

Serena's smile fades.  She thrusts inside Bernie without preamble, her fingers crooking and drawing out a deliciously agonised moan from Bernie's mouth.  Serena loves her the most when she's like this - when Bernie opens herself so completely and willingly.  It's a matter of trust and Serena sometimes feels as though she has every last shred Bernie could possibly offer.  

 

Tonight, it rankles.  Tonight, it makes Serena pity Bernie for being all that she cannot.   _Will_ not.  She's rough and careless when she grabs a handful of Bernie's hair, pulling on it so hard that it yanks Bernie's head back, her muscular throat exposed.  It ripples as she swallows and looks at Serena, eyes wild and glassy.  Her breath is quick and shallow, the questions in her eyes making Serena hesitate, wonder if she has nothing and everything to lose and if that isn't the bassline of her life, thudding like a heartbeat.

 

Then, Bernie's fingers curl around her forearm, grasping tightly.  Bernie says her name again, begs _please_ and _don't stop_ and Serena feels her jaw clench in response.  If she can't glean her own pleasure from this, then she'll take Bernie's - make Bernie's her own.  Serena's hand begins to move again, her fingers stroking Bernie towards climax and her hand clenching in Bernie's hair.  Bernie's shoulders press into the mattress and she's fluid around Serena's touch, crashing down into every part of her and washing it clean, slaking her thirst.

 

Bernie starts to shudder, a keening cry coming from her mouth and it's all Serena can do to be present and try to come down with her.  But Bernie is saying her name again like a litany of praise and Serena can't bear to look at her or be looked at.  She falls forwards, burying her face in the crook of Bernie's neck and tries not to listen.  Bernie's hand moves up and down her back, fingers tracing every vertebrae, every swathe of soft muscle.  

 

"Thank you," she whispers, gratitude thick and low in her voice.  Her lips are close to Serena's ear: ticklish, buzzing.

 

It's so silly, how Serena's chest tightens and she feels tears clog her throat.  It's so juvenile how she clings to Bernie for longer than is necessary before moving away, lying on her side with her back towards Bernie.  This is how she copes, after all.  How she _has_ coped this long before shattering into tiny little pieces.

 

"Thank you," Serena hears herself say, eyes prickling.

 

Bernie is behind her in an instant, the lean shape of her body fitting so perfectly against Serena's.

 

"For what?"

 

"For not leaving."

 

Bernie's arms envelop her, the clean scent of her shampoo and the sensation of her lips against the nape of Serena's neck.

 

"I know you like to cry alone - "

 

"I don't _like_ to cry - nobody _likes_ to cry, Bernie, for _god's_ sake - "

 

"And your ferociously independent spirit is one of the things I love most about you," Bernie continues blithely, "but whatever you think, you don't have to be alone.  Because you're not alone.  I'm here.  Always."

 

Serena is quiet.  If she doesn't speak then she doesn't have to hurt over the promises that inevitably break.  Not by her own design, but by that of something she can't control and dearly wishes she could.  Then she could promise Bernie the same and mean it, believe it, instead of believing that the only way to hurt less is to make someone else hurt more.

 

"Thank you," Serena says again, putting her hand over Bernie's where it rests on the swell of her stomach.  It's something to hang onto, after all, when all her lifelines have been used up.  It's not hope - not yet.  

 

But it's something.  She's not alone; she doesn't have to be.  And maybe that's where hope might glow in the embers.

 

***


End file.
